The night lay thick over New York, a cold, biting wind sweeping through the narrow streets. The glow of distant neon signs bled into the darkness, casting long, shifting shadows along the alleyways. The city pulsed—horns blaring, voices echoing, the rhythmic slap of hurried footsteps against the pavement—but none of it mattered to him right now. His focus was locked on one thing: finding them.

North had sent him on this errand, called it "urgent," and said there was "no time to lose." Bunnymund grumbled the whole way here, still half-convinced the groundhogs would’ve been a better choice than whatever newcomer they’d thrown at us this time. But North was stubborn—and unfortunately, so was he.

Bunnymund crouched atop a rooftop, surveying the alley below, his boomerangs resting comfortably in his grasp. The scent of damp concrete and old metal filled the air. Below, a flickering streetlamp barely held back the dark, its pale light cutting across the alley like a fragile shield. And there—just beyond the edge of the glow—Guest stood, half-hidden in the shadows. Their posture was tense, uncertain. Like they were caught between running and staying put.

He landed in a crouch, silent, his movements smooth as instinct. His ears twitched, already picking up the subtle shift in their breathing. They noticed him, alright.

Their eyes met his, wary, sharp. He knew that look. Doubt. They had it the same as he did. And yet… there was something else there. Some flicker of defiance, like they weren’t quite willing to back down.

The alley stretched silent, heavy with expectation. Then, slowly, Guest stepped forward.

Maybe—just maybe—there was more to them than he thought.